


St. Valentine's Day

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [23]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:28:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's least favorite holiday approaches, and Lancelot emotes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	St. Valentine's Day

**Author's Note:**

> Set closely to Back To Bedlam.

_Blam! Blam! Blamblamblamblam!_

_Clickclick._

 

Arthur ejected the clip from his gun, and slammed home another. The firing range was full of trainees – luckily his ears were covered by plastic mufflers.

 

_Blamblamblamblamblamblam._

_Click._

 

Once more.

 

_Blamblamblamblamblamblam._

_Clickityclick._

 

He stopped, and pressed the button that brought the target towards him, so he could check his aim and progress. The head and heart portions of the paper perp were torn clean through. He ripped the thing down, grabbed up his bag and gun, and vacated the booth, the next person waiting patiently to take their turn.

He ignored the whispers as he passed; he wasn’t concerned with how good the others thought he was. He was only concerned with how good Captain Hartigan thought he was, and how good he considered himself to be.

 

*

 

The shower felt good on his sore shoulders; the gun was reliable and an heirloom, but it had a massive kick that Arthur was never really prepared for. He tensed his back, then stretched his arms over his head, allowing the wet heat to sluice over his skin. Sighing, he rotated his head and spread his arms wide, the water almost as good as a massage. His hips still had bruises on them, as did his chest and, embarassingly, his inner thighs. Luckily the shower room was empty and he didn’t have to answer any questions about the marks.

 

Lancelot had only recently been coming around his loft regularly again. When Arthur had joined the academy six months previously, he had believed the other man would never speak to him again. But Lance had surprised him by bursting in on him one night, and they had made up the best way they knew how – Arthur still had a sore lower back because of it. He smiled to himself; he certainly wasn’t complaining. They had had too many ups and downs to borrow trouble now.

 

Like the time Lance ended up in the hospital?

 

He shook his head, then finished washing and turned off the water. Drying off and dressing in jeans, a tee shirt and a buttondown, he packed away his newly cleaned gun and supplies before leaving the foggy locker room empty the way he had found it.

 

*

 

The highway was quite empty for a Friday night, and a holiday one at that. Arthur kept one eye on the road, and one on the beautiful LA sky, which was streaked purple and gold. Mother Nature was showing off for sure. It was days like these that made him enjoy the freedom of his motorcycle. The pressure from the wind against his leathers was strong, but it was exhilarating, and he smiled to himself as he roared along.

 

The first sign that something was wrong was a tingling in his neck; the skin prickled and he felt somewhat cold, despite the heavy riding armor. He shook his head – he was always assuming something was amiss when things were perfectly fine. He tried to ignore the feeling, but when he turned the bend and exited at Mulholland, he understood. He had been too distracted to hear the noises, and was surprised he hadn’t noticed the flashing of the cherry tops until he was practically on top of them.

 

Two smashed cars, one almost destroyed beyond recognition, blocked the bottom of the exit. They apparently had been dragging – that happened a lot on this road, the curves too tempting for some people. Arthur slowed his Triumph to a crawl, and maneuvered between glass and (he swallowed roughly behind his visor) blood smears.

 

One uniform approached him as he came to a complete stop. “Keep going, buddy,” he waved at Arthur until he caught sight of the badge hanging from Arthur’s neck. “Academy?” he asked as Arthur flipped his face plate up and nodded. “What happened?”

 

“Stupid kids,” the uniform rolled his eyes, “what a fucking waste. They were racing and one lost control. Some of ‘em have started trying to use nitrous in their engines as an extra boost – I’m guessing this one didn’t get quite the right mix.” Arthur’s eyes followed the man’s pointing fingers to the worst wreckage, a green Honda that was crumpled against the guard rail. He noted that the EMT’s were loading one body bag onto a gurney, and still working on one other. The blood had come from him.

 

“DOA?” he asked the uniform. “One was,” came the answer, “but the kid driving the Toyota is a possibility – if you think living as a vegetable is a good thing.”

 

Arthur shook his head slightly and snapped his visor into place. Excusing himself, he rode on, squeaking past the Honda – thank God for his bike – and tried not to look at the kid on the ground. Instead he turned helpless eyes on the still body in the black slick bag on the gurney being loaded into the ambulance. The EMT’s gazed at him as he rode past, then continued what they were doing.

 

Arthur sped up, pretending he hadn’t seen a white hand flopping out of the bag before the lead medical worker had zipped the bag up the rest of the way.

 

*

 

He parked his bike in his designated spot, and tore up the stairs to his loft. He made it just before the rain started. Interesting, considering the sky and sunset had been remarkably clear and beautiful no more than a half hour before. He rolled his eyes at the thought of Southern California weather. He set his helmet and heavy jacket down, kicking off the boots and shedding his leathers, hanging them in the closet right by the door. Chilled despite the comfortable temperature of his home, he made his way on sock feet to the kitchen, deciding he could use a drink. It was Friday, after all, and he actually had Saturday free to do with as he saw fit.

 

Two fingers of scotch on ice was plenty. He padded into the space that served as his living room, turning on every light he could reach. Snapping on the television, he lowered himself into the couch and put his feet up. Groaning, he searched for the remote when the tv came on to the sound of news, but he stopped his motions when the reporter began to talk about something that had happened moments before in old town Pasadena.

 

“…the girl was described as under eighteen, from a ‘happy home,’ and a senior at Pasadena High School. Her baby would have been born in June.”

 

Arthur’s eyes widened, his hand frozen in mid air as he watched in growing horror.

 

“This is a real tragedy, Paul. We’ll hear from the girl’s parents later in the hour, and perhaps they can shed some light on why this bright young woman would have jumped to her death with no word of explanation.”

 

“God,” Arthur breathed, and stilled his movements as he kept staring at the news.

 

*

 

_…the derailed train plunged into the water, killing it’s eighty passengers quickly, UStrain representatives said…_

_…Two thousand homeless after a 7.5 earthquake rocks a crowded city east of the Sudan…_

_…UN representatives say the genocide has been happening unchecked for the past three years…_

_…the group of dolphins was caught on a routine fishing expedition, and wasn’t discovered until they had all perished on the deck of the ship…_

_…doctors say the rate of lung cancer appearing in children living in the area has increased by an alarming 10% over the past ten years…_

 

*

 

The remote control ended up on the floor after Arthur finally managed to find it. It lay there, quietly unassuming, an inanimate object, innocent of any wrongdoing. He stared at it, his eyes burning and hands numb from the clenching of his fingers.

 

The tv was silent.

 

At last Arthur stood, and finished his scotch in one long swallow. The fire of the drink trailed down his esophagus to his gut, where it scorched and hurt like he had swallowed live coal. Instead of going for another one, however, he walked stiffly to the sliding glass doors that led to the wrap around balcony attached to his loft. Slipping outside, he shut the door behind him, and blinked rapidly, not sure what he was doing or what his intentions had been in coming out here. Luckily the rain had stopped; the air was heavy with it’s passing, and Arthur’s hair curled almost immediately in response to the humidity.

 

Following the lead of his feet, he walked to the edge of the balcony, resting his forearms on the railing. He stared at the sky, the twinkling stars winking on and off. How far the light had had to travel to reach his eyes. It was odd to consider, and for a moment he allowed himself to be distracted by the enormity of the idea of light speed.

 

A loud crashing noise and honking broke his reverie, and his eyes snapped to the largest street near his home, a group of people rapidly gathering around two cars that had smacked into each other. As the shouting reached earsplitting levels, he shut his eyes and slammed his fists into the wood railing under them. Fucking weekends. Fucking holidays.

 

_Brrrrrring!_

 

“What.” Arthur had to hold back slightly in order to not break his cell phone. An amused voice answered him.

 

“Nice, darling. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

 

“Guin,” he sighed into the phone, turning his back on the arguing people on the street. “What’s up?”

 

“The sky, my credit card bills, my boobs in their fancy new bra,” she laughed, “which, by the way, you should come see.”

 

Before Arthur could stutter out an answer, she laughed again. “Relax, Arthur. Are you free at the moment?”

 

A niggling little voice in the back of his head started whispering warnings – but he shook his head and replied. “I just got home from school. Why? Did you need something?”

 

Another giggle down the line. Was she drunk? “Well…you could say that. Come down to the club, would you? There’s something you should see.”

 

“Guin,” he said, his voice dropping in tone, “I’m not in the mood for jokes. What do you need?” He tapped his fingers on his opposite arm, and wondered what he had done to deserve both the Benoit children in his life.

 

“Just come, Arthur. Trust me, you won’t be sorry.”

 

_Click._

 

Why, for the love of God, Arthur thought as he grabbed his jacket and exited the loft, did he have a feeling he’d be sorry?

 

*

 

Arthur’s eyes followed the departing police vehicles and sports cars as he drove up to Perfect Circle – it seemed most of the normal patrons were leaving really early. Strange. Especially on a “holiday” night. He stopped his bike and took off his helmet, locking it to the rear of the Triumph, and heard Guin's laughter.

 

_Oh, she’s drunk all right._

 

Sighing inwardly, he approached her as her driver was trying to cajole her into getting into her ride.

 

“Arthur!” she yelled, stumbling over to him and winding her bare arms around his neck. He grabbed her before her weight could choke him.

 

“Why, Mr. Castus,” she slurred, the gin smell hitting his face in an eye watering wave, “I didn’t know you liked me like that.” She dropped one of her arms and grabbed at the closest thing to her hand – which ended up being his ass.

 

“Guin,” Arthur warned, extricating himself from her squid like embrace. He walked her to her car, and physically sat her down in the back as the grateful driver went around to the front and started the engine. She frowned prettily at him as she spoke through the window she rolled down when Arthur shut her door.

 

“You always did like him better. Why? Aren’t I pretty enough for you?” She laughed, but it didn’t reach her eyes, which were watering. Her makeup was beginning to run, and Arthur ignored her comment, knowing she would be horrified were she sober. He hoped.

 

“Guin, honey,” he sighed, “go home and sleep, okay? Is this why you called me?”

 

Her laugh reached annoying levels, and Arthur winced when her nails scraped his arm as he stood. “No, darling. Go inside. You’ll see.” She abruptly rolled the window up and the driver, sensing a chance, drove away as fast as possible.

 

Arthur turned to stare at the doors to the club, which were shut, but he could see the locks were undone. Cocking an eyebrow in concern, he walked to the entrance and pulled on the handles. One of the doors opened easily, and the thump thump of bass assailed him immediately. A flash of sparkling black caught his eye; the only car left in the lot was Lancelot’s Thunderbird. More concerned now, he entered the club, shutting the door fully behind him.

 

*

 

Prince’s voice hit Arthur in the chest like a sledgehammer – the volume was enough to make his ears bleed. He decended the stairs quickly, his instinct screaming at him that something was way wrong. The lights were strobing, the club was free of normal illumination, and the place looked as if it should have the hundreds of customers it normally did. Instead, there was only one person on the wooden floor, dancing like he was made for it. Arthur walked slowly as he gained the ground level, eyes stuck to Lancelot’s form. The man did know how to move.

 

Shaking his head, Arthur followed around the circular floor, watching Lance and making his way to the dj station. The other man either was ignoring him or didn’t see him, for he kept his head down, sweat flying from him as he danced. Stepping up to the booth, Arthur found the power cord (he didn’t want to take the time to find the right button to shut the damn thing off), and pulled it.

 

Prince and his doves crying died out slowly, the sound fading into the walls like smoke.

 

“The fuck?” Lance asked, his voice loud in the sudden quiet. His eyes automatically trained on the booth. Arthur’s mouth gaped when he got a good look at the other man. He stepped down, hand still on the power cord, and almost jerked himself off his feet when he forgot he was holding it.

 

“What the fuck happened to you?” he asked, his voice rising in octave as he neared Lance. “What is all this?”

 

“I’m having a party, what does it look like?” Lance answered, a bright and angry laugh shattering what little remained of Arthur’s calm. He dropped the power cord and stepped in front of Lance.

 

The other man’s shirt was torn, his chest smeared with red, and his leather pants were shiny with the stuff. His face…well. One eye was swollen and purple, his nose was obviously broken, and the split lip he had received was beginning to puff up, clearly the source of all the blood. Lance’s hair was askew and crazy with sweat and smelled suspiciously of alcohol.

 

“Fuck!” Arthur spat, and ripped the edge of his own shirt, bringing the fabric up to Lancelot’s face. He dabbed at the torn skin of the other man’s lip, who tried to jerk away. “Stop it,” Arthur snapped, and for once Lance listened and held still. Perhaps it was Arthur’s tone of voice. Arthur didn’t care as long as the other man did what he asked.

 

“What the fuck, Lance,” he repeated. “What happened?”

 

“Uh, well,” Lancelot answered, then hissed in pain as Arthur began to wipe the drying blood off his lip. “Someone tried to stick his hand up Guin's skirt, and since I was with her…” he trailed off, trying to look sincere. Arthur doubted that was even half of what had really happened. “Uh huh,” he murmured, concentrating on getting the younger man’s face into a semblance of normalcy, “now tell me what really happened.”

 

He dragged Lancelot toward the bathrooms, and when he snapped on the lights, Lance moaned and raised a hand to his eyes. “Jesus, Castus,” he whined, “that’s just cruel and unusual.” Arthur didn’t answer and pushed Lance to one of the benches that lined the small room. He turned his back and ignorned the pitiful groaning coming from Lance; grabbing some towels, he wet them, and found a bottle of hydrogen peroxide under the sink.

 

“Ow! JESUS!”

 

Arthur shrugged. “You did it to yourself, dipshit. What happened? Really?” He kept dabbing peroxide on the cuts as Lancelot fumed and tears ran from his eyes. Arthur was sure it hurt, but at the moment was so angry he found some sadistic pleasure in it. A sigh; then Lance frowned. “A guy did try and feel up Guin. Not like she wasn’t half drunk and half dressed,” he said, “but she’s my sister. And she wasn’t exactly herself. That’s how it started, at any rate. Owfuck! Anyway, the guy took offence at my interference and decided to insult my manhood, so…”

 

Arthur finished what he was doing to Lancelot’s face, and pulled the tattered remains of the man’s extremely expensive silk shirt off.

 

“Damn. That wasn’t cheap,” Lance griped, then hissed again when the peroxide touched the scratches on his bare chest.

 

Arthur’s eyes ticked to Lance's, who had the smarts to look chagrined. “Sorry. Yeah, anyway, tussle, kick, punch, knees to the balls, and then the asshole called me a ‘rich fairy’and that was it.”

Arthur cringed – damn, but whoever the guy was who Lance had been fighting was either very stupid or very drunk to say something like that. Everyone knew who Lancelot was – especially the people in Perfect Circle – but nobody insulted him. Not like that.

Finished with the quick triage job, Arthur threw away the dirty towels and removed his shirt, then pulled off the tee shirt he had been wearing under it and handed it to the other man. “Here,” he said as he rebuttoned his oxford, “put that on." Lance did as he was bidden and pulled on Arthur’s black tee, wincing as he moved his rapidly hurting arms. “Fuck,” he cursed, trying to not touch his face with the material and barely succeeding, “thanks.”

 

Arthur just shook his head and turned to face him, bending one knee on the bench. “What were you thinking?” he said quietly. “It’ll be all over the papers tomorrow. Especially because the cops cleared the club out, and because of who you – ”

 

“I know, Arthur,” Lance snapped in response. He shivered in the sudden silence. “You think I like fighting? You think I like having my name in the news in connection with a ‘drunken brawl’? God knows I thought I was too old for this kind of thing anymore.” He laughed again, and coughed up some phlegm, which was bloody as he rose and spat in the sink. Running the tap, he looked at his face for a long time without saying anything. Arthur joined him after a while.

 

He placed his hand gently on the small of Lance's back, and rubbed it slowly. “You were protecting your sister,” Arthur stated, “I would have done the same.”

 

“Would you have called the guy a ‘motherfucking son of a crack whore’ in front of witnesses while kicking him in the ribs?”

 

_Oh, shit._

 

Arthur made a face, but kept up the touch on Lance's back. “Uh – probably not,” he admitted, “but then again, I don’t have your finesse.”

 

A genuine smile crossed the other man’s face, and at last he turned from the mirror. Twisting the knob on the sink, he ran his fingers up the arm that was holding onto his back. “Take me home. Please?”

 

Finally. “Sure,” Arthur answered, and led Lance out of the bathroom and up the stairs, careful to guide him so he wouldn’t fall and smash his face further. They got to Arthur’s bike, and Arthur handed Lancelot the helmet, who looked at it like it was a handful of trash.

 

“No fucking way, Arthur,” he said, shaking his head, “I’m not squeezing this thing over my face.”

 

Arthur bit his lip and controlled his voice. “This once. But I swear to God, if you fall or get your brains dashed onto the concrete you’ll be supremely sorry.” He jerked the thing down over his head before Lance could see his expression. He started up the Triumph and waited til the younger man was mounted behind him, his arms wound tightly around Arthur’s waist.

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” came the shout into his ear. He drove off, leaving the parking lot of Perfect Circle as fast as he was able.

 

*

 

Arthur’s loft was warm and quiet, and as he stared down at Lance's sleeping form, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. He’d made it through another Valentine’s Day without anything major happening. He always had hated the holiday – his mother and father’s inevitable fight and the drinking that came afterward not a pleasant memory. He had always made sure he was working or not available when he and Lance had finally gotten involved; he didn’t want the other man to do anything, or make any fuss over him. Bad memories and a general mistrust of the card and flower industries just made it a bad day to begin with. He was still certain they had created the holiday in order to make more money.

 

He winced slightly again as he looked at Lance's bruised face; he’d only been in a few fights himself, and the remembered pain of the healing kept him from doing it again. Good thing about being a cop – you could mostly keep the bad guys away from your soft tissue.

 

“Stop staring.”

 

Arthur snapped back into the present and looked back at Lance; the younger man was awake but was still in a prone position. His face wore a frown and he was hunched in on himself, as if it hurt to move. “Sorry. Didn’t know I was. I thought you were asleep,” Arthur said apologetically, sitting at the edge of the bed gently so he wouldn’t jostle the other man. Lancelot made a face and rubbed at his forehead.

 

“I’m freezing and I ache all over. Do you have any pills?”

 

Arthur stood, and moving to Lancelot, slid an arm around his waist. He helped the other man get up off the bed. “I have a better idea,” he said cryptically, and walked them both into his bathroom.

 

The shower was Arthur’s concession to vanity. It was big enough to hold two people easily, and had wooden walls, a built in bench, and sauna capabilities.

  
He cranked on the hot water, and stripped out of his clothing quickly. Dragging Lance's sweatpants off, he grabbed up some washcloths, and opened the shower door, making sure the temperature wouldn’t scald them.

 

“Get in,” he said, and pushed at Lancelot’s back as the younger man grumbled under his breath about being given orders. Arthur merely smiled and shut off the main lights, leaving a few oil lamps lit. He liked the things; they reminded him of the tiny apartment he and Lance had shared in college.

 

Lancelot had slumped onto the bench, the water sluicing over his shoulders and body, and he shivered, a small moan echoing in the walled space. Arthur approached him and knelt, taking up some liquid soap and a sponge. “Shhhh,” he said quietly, and began to soap up Lancelot’s legs, one at a time. The other man stared at him with some confusion, then sighed happily as Arthur’s hands and the slick soap touched him.

 

“Good idddea,” he stuttered, relaxing under the heat and the touch.

 

Arthur stayed quiet as he worked, finally sitting behind Lance on the bench, his hands working out the kinks in the other man’s back, smiling to himself at the noises Lance was making. At last the other man’s shoulders dropped to a normal level, and Arthur put away the soap, sliding forward on the seat and snaking his arms around Lancelot’s middle.

 

He rested his chin on Lance's shoulder, and spoke into his ear. “Better?”

 

“Mmmmmmmmm, oh, yes,” came the mumbled reply. “Did I tell you today that I love you?”

 

Arthur laughed, the motion shaking them both. “No, but I’ll take it. Thank you. And I hope not just for my massage skills.”

 

“No,” Lance said, head turning slightly so he could graze Arthur’s cheek and jaw with his mouth. He winced as the stubble caught at his torn lip. “Ow! Goddamnit.”

 

Arthur’s fingers rose and pushed Lancelot’s face away from his own, far enough so the injury wouldn’t touch anything. “Don’t make it worse,” he smiled. “You can kiss me some other day.” Lance pouted as Arthur dropped his own lips to Lance’s shoulder and began to nip gently. “But I want to do it now,” he whined, then shivered again as Arthur’s hands began to squeeze Lancelot’s thighs. He laughed roughly. “You have a talent for distracting me, Castus.”

 

“Not trying to,” Arthur said between kisses of the other man’s neck. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

 

His hands drifted to Lance’s belly, playing with the taut muscles there. He rubbed at the other man’s warm skin, counted his ribs with the tips of his fingers, then, keeping one hand on Lance’s stomach, dropped the other to Lancelot’s sensitive inner thigh. “Ah! Arthur, Jesus,” the cry ripped out of Lancelot’s throat. He smiled and threaded his fingers through Arthur’s that still rested on his belly. “Promises, promises.”

 

Arthur snorted. “What promise? I’m just amusing myself, here.”

 

Lancelot wriggled his backside against Arthur, who was pressed flush to him. It was Arthur’s turn to bite back a moan, and the hand on Lance’s thigh squeezed a bit more tightly than he had anticipated.

 

“You trying to add to my bruise collection?” Lancelot teased breathily, head tipping back to rest on Arthur’s shoulder. “Not just yet,” came the answer, and Lance squirmed against Arthur’s body again. That earned him a slap to the leg. “You want to rush this?” Arthur’s whisper heated his neck. “No,” he answered, trying to still. His face ached, but not like his groin did. He felt as if he might die of want.

Arthur murmured Lance's name as his talented fingers moving finally to where the other man had wanted them in the first place. Lance gasped and arched his back against his will. “Mmmhmmmm,” he sighed. “Damn,” he added, the muscles under Arthur’s hand on Lance’s belly clenching. Arthur smiled against the other man’s shoulder, and keeping his eyes open, let his fingers walk around Lance’s balls, cupping the soft tissue in his palm as the other man’s flesh stiffened in response.

 

“Arthur,” Lancelot whined, his voice cracking, “stop teasing. Touch me, for fuck’s sake.”

 

“I am,” Arthur answered, his smile broadening, “or can’t you feel that?”

 

A sharp yelp rushed out of Lance's mouth and his eyes fluttered closed. His legs dropped open further and he relaxed his back and head completely against Arthur’s body. “Oh, I can feel it,” he whispered. Arthur’s deep chuckle made his body tighten again.

 

Arthur’s hand on Lancelot’s cock tightened and moved in a short, easy rhythm that had him moaning and writhing rather quickly. He came fast and hard, Arthur’s name a gasped thing from his lips. Arthur’s own body was taut and stiff, but he merely kissed Lancelot’s neck gently, hand releasing the other man as he found Lancelot’s speeding pulse and laved a line over it.

 

“Fuck,” Lance breathed, eyes screwed shut and body quivering against Arthur’s. “Fuck.”

 

“Later,” Arthur said, hands tracing the fine hair on Lancelot’s thighs again. “Wash off. It really is time to sleep.”

 

Lancelot laughed, a small soft sound that made Arthur smile again. “I can’t walk. You think I can clean myself up?”

 

*

 

Arthur turned over and smacked his alarm clock harder than intended. He grumbled muzzily, then snuggled back under his warm covers, reaching for Lance. His eyes opened when he found only empty bed. Brows drawing together in confusion, he got out of the bed and padded to the railing in his sweatpants, looking down into the main area of the loft and the kitchen, where he could hear banging noises, then a muffled “shit!”

 

He bit his lip to avoid laughing, then walked slowly downstairs.

 

Lance’s tight back was turned to him as Arthur entered the kitchen, the younger man scrambling eggs with a fury Arthur had rarely seen on him. He leant against the counter and yawned, crossing his arms. “Morning,” he said, then rushed forward to catch the dropped spatula as Lance shouted in surprise. “Damn it! Arthur!” he yelled as Arthur handed him back the cooking implement. “What are you doing awake?” he added grumpily. Arthur cocked an eyebrow.

 

“Uh, I live here, remember? What are you doing? You should be resting,” he said pointedly, looking at Lancelot’s purple, blue and black face. The lip looked much better, but his eye – wow. Arthur hadn’t seen a shiner like that in many moons.

 

“You didn’t remind me!” Lance griped, then turned back to his breakfast. “Fuck,” he said angrily, “I hope you like slightly dark eggs.” Arthur moved so he could see what Lance was doing. “Didn’t remind you of what?” He reached for one of the cluster of grapes that sat next to Lancelot’s elbow, and was rewarded with a smack to the arm. “Valentine’s day was yesterday,” came the cold answer, Lance scrambling harder. Arthur’s hand reached out and slowed him down.

 

“Yeah, it was,” he said, “and you know how I feel about it. It’s nothing to do with you.”

 

Lancelot turned off the stove, and moved the egg pan so it wouldn’t burn. He scooped the food onto two plates that already held potatos and fruit. “Yes,” he snapped, “but I don’t hate it. I would’ve liked to have done something for you.” Arthur took the pan from him, setting it in the sink, and turned Lancelot around so he was facing Arthur. Placing his palms gently on the other man’s injured cheeks, he kissed the tip of his nose – the only place that didn’t look too bad, despite the break. “I appreciate the thought, Lance. But I’m not angry, and I don’t care that you missed it. I’m just happy you’re here with me now.”

 

Lancelot glared at Arthur, then shoved away, taking up the plates and moving to the table, where a fresh vase of flowers sat.

 

_Shit, shit shit._

 

“Come eat this before it gets cold,” Lance called, voice tight. “I can at least do this for you without it bringing up bad memories. Unlike everything else.” Arthur’s mouth dropped open, then shut with a click. He walked to the table as well, and knelt in front of Lancelot, who wouldn’t look at him. “Lance, what the hell?” Arthur asked quietly, hands forcibly picking up Lancelot’s and taking them in his own. “You don’t – I love you. What’s going on?”

 

Lance snorted, a sharp sound that made his noise ache. He tried not to meet Arthur’s eyes, but when he finally did, the hurt and confusion in the green depths made his own burn and fill. He shook his head. “That man, the one I fought with?” he started finally, waiting til Arthur nodded. “He said I was a cop’s whore, and that my father ought to make Guin his heir instead of some pansy imitation of a son.”

 

Arthur’s head snapped back as if hit. He gripped Lancelot’s hands more tightly. “Fuck,” he said in a sigh, “…I’m so sorry. I’m really sorry, Lance. You had every right to kick his ass.”

 

A feral grin appeared on Lancelot’s bruised lips. “I did that. He had to go with the ambulance. I only bled.”

 

A lot, Arthur wanted to add, but didn’t. He rose and sat, pulling the chair so he was still able to keep Lance’s hands in his. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, “what a fuck.” He let go of one of Lancelot’s hands and cupped the younger man’s cheek. “I love you. You don’t bring up bad memories for me. And you’re not a whore,” he added vehemently, “I’ve known you forever. You’re my best friend.”

 

Lance leant into the touch, cringing away only slightly from the pain of his bruises. “Arthur,” he asked, voice serious, “am I a bad person?”

 

Arthur was horrified by the tone in Lance’s words. It was like he believed it. “No,” he replied immediately, both hands threading with the other man’s. “No. Not in a million years. You are one of the most open, sincere, caring, albeit insufferable, annoying and irratating people I’ve ever known,” he went on, a small smile flitting over Lancelot’s face. “I’m proud to call you friend. Lover. Everything,” he finished, pulling Lance to stand so he could tug him into an embrace. He squeezed tightly, and the little yelping sound the other man made reminded him of Lance’s injuries.

 

“Don’t ever say that to me again,” Arthur stated, burying his face in the other man’s springy hair. “I’ll kill any person who says that about you.”

 

The two men stayed locked together as their food went cold, Lancelot clinging to Arthur like he was a lifering in the middle of the ocean, and the only thing that would save the younger man from the sharks.

 

“I love you, Arthur,” Lance whispered, almost desperately, “I need you. Don’t forget that.”

 

Arthur didn’t answer, but pressed a soft kiss to Lancelot’s bruised mouth, his hands shaking as he held the other man tightly to him.

 

*

 

Arthur tugged at his tie – the thing felt odd. He checked himself one more time in the mirror, and made a face, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue. “Vanity, thy name is Castus,” he grumped, and shut off the bathroom light. He stomped somewhat heavily down the stairs, grumbling to himself, and called out to Lancelot to let the other man know he was ready.

 

“Be right there,” came the reply, and Arthur sat on the back of the couch as he waited. He had refused to wear dress shoes – he had to wear them with his uniform and they were quite possibly the most uncomfortable things he’d ever had the pain to own. So his Blundstones would have to do. At least they were black.

 

“Lance, Jesus,” he yelled out finally, “we’re not going to the prom. Come on.”

 

“Sheesh! All right,” the other man shouted back, and clicked off the light to the downstairs half bath, shutting the door behind him. He made his way into the main space of the loft. “Ready?”

 

“Told you I was…” Arthur trailed off as he looked up and caught sight of Lancelot.

 

“Wow.”

 

Lance merely cocked an eyebrow and smirked. “Like?”

 

Arthur shook his head in wonder. “How much money do you spend on clothing and hair care products a month? More than my tuition, I would assume.” Despite the cutting jibe, he whistled. “Damn.” He stood and actually walked all the way ‘round the other man. “You look amazing.”

 

Lance tried not to preen, but he had to work hard at it. “Thanks. So do you.”

 

Arthur shrugged and laughed self consciously. “Not. I may have to tie a rope around you to keep people from dragging you off.” He stepped more closely to the other man. Lancelot wore an impeccably fitted black suit, the trousers cigarette thin and striped with tiny white lines. The coat fit like a second skin. The dark grey shirt pulled the pieces into one graceful whole, and the other man wore it like it was made for him. It probably was, Arthur thought, then smiled. Lancelot smelled like his patchouli oil and Arthur had to check himself before he ripped Lance’s beautiful suit off him and took him there on the floor.

 

Next to the other man, he looked like a pauper. His suit was a normal black with a green silk shirt providing a modicum of color; the slender black tie made the color stand out – even more so than the fact that the green was almost the same dark shade of Arthur’s eyes.

 

“A rope? Arthur, we’ll have to wait til later for games,” Lancelot purred, and Arthur felt his face flame as he cleared his throat.

 

“Anyway,” he said loudly, “shouldn’t we be going?”

 

“Actually, yeah,” the other man answered, his face falling out of the seductive look it had been wearing. Arthur breathed a tiny sigh of relief. He moved to the door, catching up the keys to his car, and opened it, waiting for Lance to follow him. He locked the door behind them as they made their way into the street and Arthur’s parked Toyota.

 

“No bike tonight?” Lance joked. Arthur smiled and shook his head. “Not in these clothes,” he answered. He pressed the button on his keyring and unlocked the doors, both men seating themselves quickly.

 

*

 

The restaurant was empty; Arthur groaned internally at the sudden thought that Lance had determined, despite Arthur’s assurances to the contrary, that he had to do something to make up for missing Valentine’s. The music was soft jazz and the food was served quickly. They ate, and talked about mundane things. It was relaxing and rare. Arthur found he was happy and enjoying himself. Damn, did they have to always be alone to be comfortable?

 

He shook off the dark thought and ate his fruit tart. Finishing off his coffee, he patted his stomach and belched unexpectedly. They both laughed. “Sorry,” Arthur grinned, “my compliments to the chef.”

 

“I’ll tell her,” Lance smiled back. He pushed back his chair and stood. Holding out his hand, he waited. Arthur took it and followed Lance’s tug out to the garden in the back. The moon was up and shone brightly on the plants and trees that filled the space; this had always been one of Arthur’s favorite restaurants and he reminded himself to send a note to the owners thanking them for the rent-out.

 

Fairy lights twinkled on the bigger trees, and the two men sat on the small bridge that crossed the tiny stream that flowed through the place. They dangled their legs off the side; Arthur leant forward and rested his head on the wooden slats. Lance kept a hold of Arthur’s hand and twined their fingers together. He spoke quietly. “I know you say you don’t care about this silly holiday,” he started, and Arthur had to refrain from rolling his eyes (damn it, he knew it). He nodded, not responding.

 

“I know you say it, but I’m not sure you feel it,” Lance went on, swinging his legs, not meeting Arthur’s eyes. “So that’s what this was for. To make sure you know how much you mean to me. I hope I don’t show it just once a year – but you get my point.” He turned his head finally, and smiled somewhat bashfully at Arthur, who squeezed their joined fingers. “Come here.”

 

Lancelot pulled on Arthur’s hand, and Arthur slid over, his hip bumping Lance’s. He raised his free hand, placing it on the other man’s neck, and Lancelot leant over and kissed him. It was slow at first, but rapidly progressed into something heated and full of promise. Arthur turned his body so he faced the other man completely, their hands still joined, the fingers of his other hand caressing the warm thud thud of Lancelot’s pulse.

 

He was suddenly aware of nothing except for Lance and Lance's skin and scent and touch and heartbeat.

 

Lance shifted so he could lean against one of the support poles of the bridge, and Arthur pressed against him, keeping their grip on one another locked tightly. Stars dotted the bright sky, and his last coherent thought was that perhaps humankind had the possibility to be more than car wrecks, more than angry teens, more than ugly, spoilt children. If Lance could be more than the sum of his parts and upbringing, which he was in spades, Arthur had a clear hope for the rest.

 

He kissed Lancelot again, and concentrated on the feel of their hands wound together, a small reflection of their hearts.


End file.
